DCA/MFA

Daisy Christina Abreu, MFA

On January 4, 2013, I graduated from Fairfield University's MFA in creative writing program and was honored to be chosen by my fellow graduates to deliver the student address. The  text from my speech is below. 

Dr. White, Dr. Crabtree, fellow students, faculty, family, friends, and my beloved Cohort 5.  It is an honor to be here speaking on behalf of my fellow graduates as we celebrate this huge accomplishment.

December 2010. It was a dark and snowy night. We arrived on Enders island, OUR island, not knowing what to expect of the program or of each other. The only thing we knew was that we wanted to be writers. Better writers.

Every six months we gather in this sacred place to commune with words and with each other. Summer and winter, we come together to check in, to encourage, to workshop, to be around other writers. We ask the hard questions:

“What the hell is a craft essay?” “Do I have time for a nap before the next seminar?”
“Has anyone seen Chuck Johnson?” 

Enders Island in Winter

We commiserate over a lack of sleep and an abundance of salad. Most importantly we talk
about writing. Not just in workshops and in seminars, but in this chapel and in the gazebo, and over those ever-present salads and over more than one glass of Crane Lake.

Fiction…nonfiction…poetry…screenplays. Fitzgerald…Hemingway…Didion…Baldwin…Neruda… Whitman.

We cannot get enough.

Second semester reading

We learn the craft from the best professors we could ever hope for; teachers who give us pages of notes, direct us to readings that inform our own work, and reassure us when we think we are the WORST writers in the world. They urge us onward, reminding us that the only way to get better is to keep reading. And keep writing.

There were times when we thought: I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to do the work, to be better than I was last semester…last residency…last year. There were times when we thought: What am I doing here? This is crazy. I don’t think I can do this.

I admit that there was a night or two…or ten…that first residency when I sat in my room and wept. I was nervous and I was scared, but I was also excited. I knew I was where I belonged. Nothing scarier than the first few days of a new life, acknowledging that it is all I ever wanted, and realizing that this is only the beginning. 


The fear passed, then returned and stayed for a while…looking at you, third semester projects…but we knew it was all going to be fine. Tough, but fine. Whether sitting under a tent talking about literary heartthrobs, or standing up in a chapel in front of what is probably the most receptive audience any of us may ever have, we realized: We are here to make friends.

Friends and writers forever

This is not a competition. While we are competing with ourselves to be better, we are not necessarily competing with each other. That is evident on our Facebook page, where every new student is welcomed “to the family,” every success is cheered, and every setback is received with support and words of encouragement. And that support is not limited to Enders Island or the Internet. And it does not end when we graduate. We will continue to show up for each other at readings whether at the Fairfield University bookstore, the public library, or some random coffee shop. We will return to Enders for alumni day and support the new cohorts of students. And we will break sales records on amazon.com whenever one of us publishes a book.

 
Ten years ago, my dear friend and mentor, Clayton Hudnall, gave me this advice when I asked what I should do with my life: “Know what you want. Do not go anywhere for creative writing, unless you are obsessed by it.”
   
It wasn’t until recently that I understood what he meant. Everyone in this chapel knows how obsessed my fellow classmates and I are with this program and with writing. On behalf of my fellow graduates, I want to thank all of you for supporting and allowing us to indulge in our obsession for two solid years. The good news is, we did it. The bad news is, we’re still obsessed. That’s not going to change. Ever.
  
We are writers. Writers who teach, who parent, who care for ailing parents, who work for nonprofits, who freelance, who search for Bigfoot. We were writers when we arrived on that snowy night and we are better writers as we prepare to leave this place.

No matter what we do, we write. We can’t help it. In the shower, in the car, at our desks, as we drift off to sleep. Writing…always writing. We. Can’t. Help it. It makes our loved ones crazy. It distracts us during the day. It keeps us up at night. We are constantly searching for the right word, the right line, the best way to express ourselves. 

Poems…novels…essays…messays. We make lists and outlines, on notecards and on napkins. They are in our pockets and in our pocketbooks.

This is a messy business. But we won’t stop. We can’t stop. This isn’t the end of our work; it is the beginning, the next chapter. We are prepared, even when we feel unprepared. Don’t misunderstand me. We are scared to death, but we are at our most fearless when we are writing.  Don’t try and stop us. We’re writers.

Maybe I’m sentimental, basking in the glow of graduation, enjoying a last wistful lap around the Island.  December does bring much reflection; there is a lot of flipping through the old notebooks and reviewing first, second and third drafts.  But January. January is a clean sheet of paper, a new page. White as the snow that fell on this island the night we arrived.

My friends, this—tonight—this is our new year.  Let us go forth and write up a storm.  

Blizzard Cohort for life.  
 

Blizzard Cohort for life

Forgetting Myself

I'm at a party or in a bar, and the question comes up. 

"What do you do?"

"I'm a deputy director at a business improvement district." 

Right, what does that mean?

I'm part of a team that works to make downtown a better, more livable place. I talk about how the organization helps support local business owners. I talk about the Downtown Ambassadors, the visitor center, special events and advocacy. I talk about how I like making a difference in my community. 

One of my friends will say, "AND?"

Oh, right. I'm in graduate school. I'm working toward an MFA in Creative Writing at Fairfield University. I'm writing a book. 

Why do I forget to mention that part? It's not that I don't think it's important. It is important. It might be the most important thing I've ever done for myself. But sometimes I forget I'm doing it. It's a lot of work, but it doesn't feel like work. I'm doing something I love and pursuing a dream. One that seems more attainable than, say, dancing with Gene Kelly. 

Maybe I don't mention it because it is kind of private. As private as writing a memoir can be. I'm shy about it. Yes, me.

Maybe I think people won't care, or won't get it. I have to get over it. 

It's what I do and who I am. I'm a writer.

Midway

By Thanksgiving weekend, my last packet for this semester will be in the mail. Another thirty plus pages of original work and three critical essays on the books I'm reading are all due by November 20th. This means I am (almost) halfway to completing my MFA. Holy. Crap. I am actually doing this. It still amazes me. A year ago I was getting ready to leave for my very first residency. I was a wreck. I didn't know if I could really do this or how I would manage. Balance my full-time job and the MFA and all my community work (yeah, I took on two board positions AFTER I started the program. I know.)? How?

Guess what. I'm doing it. Not brilliantly, but I'm not half-assing it either. I'm learning how to manage my time, how to focus when I need to and how to say no to things. That's the tricky part. Saying no means sometimes feeling like I'm letting people down. But saying yes to too many things means my work (and my health, mental and physical) suffer.

If anything has "suffered" it's been my social life. My friends are not only understanding about the "New Haven Maven" becoming "Daisy the Disappeared", they are supportive and encouraging and loving. Even when I don't show up to Trivia for weeks at a time. Even when I ask if we can meet for coffee on a weekday afternoon instead of dinner and drinks on Saturday night. They want me to succeed, they believe in me. I love them for it.

So, two semesters down and two to go. A third semester project and my thesis are down the road a piece. And somewhere in there are holidays with my family, residencies on Enders Island, work events in the Have, board meetings and...my fortieth birthday. Yikes! And, hooray!

Wedding Belles

Kate & Nicole Gorton

My Fairfield MFA roomie got married last Saturday. Kate is hilarious, super-smart, gorgeous, up for anything and so generous. She is, as AJ once said, the American Hermione Granger.

Her wife, Nicole, is equally fantastic.

Kate's siblings and Nicole's brother joked in their toasts about the brides' constant public displays of affection, the pet names and the giggling they do, but they also agreed these two people are meant to be together.

Kate and I werqing the dancefloor.
photo by Kate Taylor

Watching Kate and Nicole take this step, surrounded by people who love and support them, gave me hope and renewed my faith in a lot of things.  I cried through the ceremony, the toasts, the first dance. I'm a soft touch anyway, but this was one of those times where my main line was busted. Good thing I brought my hankie. Once I dried my eyes, raised my glass and ate a wedding cupcake, I joined the bridal party, family members and friends on the dance floor and rocked out all night long.

One of the catering staff said it was the happiest wedding she had ever seen. No doubt.

Married!

Love is love. And seeing it in action is so awesome.

MFA Residency II: Summer Writing Boogaloo

I just got home from my MFA program's summer residency on Enders Island in Mystic, Connecticut. My days were spent learning about the craft of writing in morning workshops, attending seminars on everything from the poems of Zbigniew Herbert to what to do after I receive my degree (the short answer: keep writing) and sitting in the chapel after dinner, listening to my professors read from their work. And, yeah, there was some downtime. Bonfires and s'mores, swimming and wiffle ball, fellowship under the stars and a talent show.  You know what they say about all work and no play...

Brian Hoover swings for the gazebo

Some notes from my Isle of Write:

Kate, me and the dread pirate Cisco aboard the Argia

The right roommate makes all the difference. Kate, thanks for bringing the fan, the fun and the fierceness. You are my Jiminy Cricket.

Don't be afraid to ask for you want or need. Whether it's a meal, a mentor or a chance to do something new, don't hesitate. Or, as Kate said to me: "just f'ing take it!"




No matter how much bug spray you use, mosquitoes will get you.

No sign of Chuck Johnson this time around. He's probably going to the Galway residency.

Let your word nerd flag fly. Instead of playing f*%k, kill or marry, think about which literary character you don't want to wake up next to, which fictional party you want to attend and which movie villain you want to kill you...well, not want to kill you.

Gregor from Kafka's Metamorphosis, Holly Golightly's party in Breakfast at Tiffany's, Leon from The Professional. What? Who would you pick?

Sit in the tent for "fellowship" long enough and you'll find out which literary character is the most desirable mate. Mine? Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird.

You can learn a lot about a person by asking about literary crushes.

Honor the traditions of those who came before you. Kate and I co-wrote a parody song in honor of the graduating cohort and performed it with A.J. and Erin at the talent show. Writing Queen (yes, as in Dancing Queen by ABBA) was whistled or hummed for the rest of the residency. That is, when people weren't whistling or humming Phil's and Linsey's awesome Mason's Road, the Fairfield University MFA program's version of John Denver's Country Road. Pat O'Connor, we tip our hats to you.

The only way to get more comfortable with public speaking is to do it every chance you get. Not only did I read some of my work in front of my classmates, I had the honor of introducing three of my fellow students at a reading. Brian, Sam B. and Erin, I meant every word I said.

It's back to the day job in the morning, but as I drift off tonight, I'll be thinking of my classmates and the words Phil borrowed from John Denver to make the song his own, our own.

Mason's Road, take me home to the place I belong. Enders Island, Mystic Mama. Take me home, Mason's Road.

Spring Cleaning Mix

I've been letting the piles in my apartment get a little out of control lately. I come home from work at night and just toss stuff around. The chair in the bedroom is covered in the outfits I wear to work, the recycling is piling up (hey, at least I'm recycling) and my "sleeping companion" is made of books, notepads and magazines. Everything is out of order, not so much dirty, just really disheveled. Every night I get home and end up on the couch or at my desk.

"No one is coming over, who cares what the place looks like?" 

Oh. right. I LIVE here  It shouldn't look like hell, especially now that I'm spending more time here than anywhere else. The clutter makes me crazy and it distracts me from the work I need to be doing. I needed to suck it up and get it done before I wrote or read another word.

All I wanted to do when I got home last night was take a big nap before I  dinner and the MFA portion of my evening, but I knew if I did that, a twenty minute power nap would turn into an hour and a half dream session and  I'd wake up too groggy to read or write (or that's what I would tell myself). The place needed a speed cleaning before I did anything. I didn't even switch my boots for slippers. What I did do was grab my ipod and set it to the dance mix. Here are the choicest cuts from last night's Grooves over Grime session.

Big Time Sensuality, Bjork

"I can sense it / something important /is about to happen / it's coming up"

Oh Bjork, I didn't even know what this song was about until a few years ago. I just like the beat and the fact that it reminds me of dancing with Douglas at BAR. Oh, the 90s.

Mama Said Knock You Out, LL Cool J

"I'm gonna take this itty bitty world by storm / And I'm just gettin warm"

Badass: the man, the song and how the song makes me feel. That is all. 

Mo Money Mo Problems, Mase/Puff Daddy/Notorious BIG 

"Ten years from now we'll still be on top / Yo, I thought I told you that we won't stop"

Any song with a Diana Ross sample is OK by me! Yes, I know all the words to Biggie's verse.

My Lovin (Never Gonna Get It), En Vogue

"What makes you think you can just walk back into her life/ Without a good fight?"

Memories of dancing and drinking with my best girls at UofH. CBs forever. 

Back to Life, Soul to Soul
"No more room for trouble and fuss / Need a change, a positive change / Look it's me writing on the wall"

One of those tracks that puts me in the zone on the dancefloor. Also works while scrubbing kitchen counters. 

  

An hour later, my place was in order and my mind was clear of clutter. I still had time to shower, eat dinner, and catch up on Glee before I settled in to study! Aw yeah! Works every time. 

How I'm Learning to Stop Worrying & Love the MFA

I'm trying to balance a full-time job with what amounts to another full-time job. Deputy Director of a Business Improvement District/Fairfield MFA Candidate. How's it going? Well...

I'm at the office from 9am-5pm. Emails, phone calls, meetings, event planning. I'm home by 6pm and allow myself two hours to unwind (reading non-school stuff, a hot shower, a real dinner) before I'm in pajama pants and working at my other job until midnight. Writing, reading, revising. Sometimes I'm just THINKING about writing, reading and revising. Yes, thinking about the writing, reading and revising is a huge part of the process, but I must be careful not to do too much thinking or I freeze up. I'm learning this one slowly. 

Thinking about writing has begun to overlap with thinking about work. Here's a sample:

"Don't forget to bring the packets for the board meeting. Remember what Elizabeth said about slowing down when you're working on that scene. Call Brad about that meeting tomorrow. Did I put the office husband's birthday card in my datebook or in my purse? How many pages is too much for submission to a publication? Who gives a shit about what I'm writing?"

Yep, all that before 7:30am. I'm not a morning person and having that much going on in my head before I've had coffee is especially annoying.

I'm exhausted and irritable. So much so that I said I hated the writing and the reading and the revising. OK, what I said was:

"I do hate this whole process, because most days I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, but I love it more because I know what it is doing for me. Stupid character building."

As my dear old (best friend's) Dad says, "No one ever said it was going to be easy." I know it. I knew this would be hard, maybe the hardest thing I've ever done for myself. And that's my real struggle. I'm doing this for myself. I'm doing this because it's what I've always wanted. I love writing. I love reading. I love thinking, talking and learning about writing and reading. And this MFA program is the way to get more of that in my life.

Only took 38 years to figure that one out. I always was a late bloomer.

Things I Learned at my First MFA Residency

Ten days on an island with one hundred writers? Yeah, I learned some things.

Name, semester and genre are the equivalent of name, rank and serial number. Meet, greet, repeat.

Daisy, first semester, non-fiction.

Big siblings are the best. Even when they break a foot, they still look out for you.

You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get a hot shower in before breakfast.
 
Do NOT go near the sea wall. 

Chuck Johnson is not who you think he is.

If you have a question, best to ask Mother Hastings.

You can get up at 10:00am to jump in the water on New Year's Day, or you can get up at 10:30am and run down to the water in time to watch your classmates do it.

It is possible to get a nap in somewhere between meals, seminars, workshops and readings.
 

Photo by Erin Corriveau

Getting up in front of a large group of writers to read my work is still scary, but not impossible. 

Writing is a solitary act, but being in an MFA program is not. There is always someone to talk with, confide in, ask questions of and receive answers from, beginning at breakfast and lasting well into the evening social time.  When the residency is over and everyone has gone home, we're still encouraging each other.

I'm a writer.

Facing the Page

I started a new piece this week as part of my first packet for school. It came out of a writing prompt in one of my seminars, and it's been floating around in my head since I got back from the residency, so I decided to go with it. I spent three days on it, one for each page I ended up with before sending it to E for some initial feedback. She reminded me that I was doing that thing again. I was glossing over a lot of things, leaving out details that end up being questions in the reader's mind in order to get the scene over with quickly. I'll spend the next few days fleshing it out and turn these three pages into at least five. I've got to really go back to that moment and get it all down. I'm afraid. This isn't a funny story about my mother or sweet memory about my father. This one is mostly me and it's not pretty. But I can do it. I have to do it. I will do it.

A Change in Me

"1/9/10. A new year, a new decade, a fresh start. A chance to believe in myself, believe in what other people see in me. I don't think I've ever been stronger, and yet there is that little bit in the back of my mind that doubts. It may never go away, especially not late at night when it is just me and my thoughts. I imagine it would be worse if not for the medicine. I still can't believe I waited so long to begin that process. I was afraid of the change it would bring. Who am I if not that weak, scared girl I've been for so long? Who am I to try something that might actually work, might make it easier to get through the tough days and the easy days? I was afraid to be even remotely happy. But I am getting there. I am learning."

"1/24/10. Change is good when you know what the change is going to be. I still don't know what my big change is going to be, but I sense it coming."

The change I sensed a year ago? It came. It's here. I'm writing this piece from my dorm room at the MFA residency I started seven days ago. Me. In an MFA program. For writing.

I didn't even know I wanted this until E sent me a link to the program on facebook. She gave me the information, answered my questions, arranged for a campus visit. She nudged me as only very few people can nudge me.

I knew I wanted this before I arrived at Enders Island. I submitted my application and transcripts the night before I visited the program in July. Spending a day on the island meeting people and sitting in on classes only made me want it more. I gave myself a month to get recommendations and a portfolio together.

I was scared. The last thing I wanted (or thought I wanted) this badly didn't happen. And it took a long time to get over it. If I failed at this...I didn't want to think about it. But I got it.

The first couple of days were overwhelming. There are all these people. All these writers. I felt like a phony. At least I had my big sis and E. After some seminars and workshops I began to feel better. I've made some friends. I've started to participate. I've read some of my work in front of faculty and students. Here's the most important thing I've learned so far: I'm a writer. I'm part of a community of writers. I'm not alone.

The residency ends on Thursday, but this is my beginning. I'm ready to do the work.

Interview

Dear Daddy,

I'm working on this thing, the grad school/MFA thing and I have so many questions for you, but you aren't here to help me on this one. Well, you're not here here, but you're around. I know you are. I don't know for sure what my project is going to be, but I have an inkling. I want to tell my story, our story, the story of how I got here. I'm beginning to realize that I can't tell my side without knowing some of yours, even if I don't end up sharing that part with the world, because you're part of me, a big part. You and Mami and Pete and Ia. My story begins with all of you. The fact that you left Cuba and came here, to the states. That I was born here instead of there. My story begins in 1968, even though I was born in 1972. Maybe it begins even earlier.

So, I have some questions and I'm putting them out there to you, wherever you are, instead of Mami because I have a feeling you'll send me the answers in your own way. And, about Mami, in the seven years since you've gone, she's barely said a peep about the time before you all came here. Oh, she's still talking, telling it like it is and letting us know what she really thinks all the time. But unless we give her a drink or two...well, that one Thanksgiving she mentioned something about you hiding people in the house and not telling her, but other than that, she's been as tight-lipped about your life, her life back there as you were.

You never talked about it. You were born and raised in another country, got married (twice), had kids (three before me) and left that country (under some duress from what I understand) and I only know what I know because Ia told me some things when I was in my twenties. She was only seven or eight when you all left, so I still don't have the full picture. I know I didn't ask. All those times we were together in the car, at the lab, in the hospital and at home, I never asked. That's my fault. I was too caught up in being a kid - playing with my Barbies, reading my books, growing up, planning my escape - to even consider that I had everything because you gave up so much.

But that's the thing. I don't even know exactly what you gave up. I know now that you left our extended family behind knowing you might never see them again, but I didn't understand what it meant when I was a kid because no one talked about it. Everybody drank about it, (El ano que viene, estamos en Cuba, next year we'll be in Cuba), and told stories about this relative (mi primo Fulanito, cousin whathisname) or that neighbor (Menganito de la esquina, whathisname from the corner) from back home, but I never heard "The night I left Cuba..."

I want to know. I want to know what it was like before the revolution. I want to know how you met my mother. Legend says you were fixing her teeth, she says you met at a dance before that happened. How long before you married? What was it like in those few months before everything changed? What was it like for you those nine years before you left? How did you and Mami make that choice? How did you tell your kids? How did you say goodbye to your mother?

Whenever I'm at Ia's, I look at those photos of you - at thirteen posing with your parents and siblings, as a newlywed smiling and sipping champagne, as a young father standing with your wife and children - and I miss you even more. I wish I could have a drink with you, turn on the tape recorder and listen to every story you kept tucked away.

You always told a great story. With your help, I'm hoping I can tell one too. Maybe we can work on Mami together?

What's the story, morning glory?

Nettle asked me THE question over beers at Richter's last Friday. The question I expect to hear quite a bit over the next two years. “What are you going to write about?” Valid question. And I had an answer. I knew. I knew because I've been telling the story for years. At some point, I'm going to write about the following:

Growing up first-generation Cuban American in Northern New Jersey in the 1970s and 1980s.

I'm not saying I know what my final project for the MFA is going to be. I don't. But this story is the story I've been telling all my life. I just haven't written it all down. I've written some of it on this blog and I've told plenty of parts of the story to plenty of people, but writing it all in one place? Turning it into something? How am I going to do that? I don't know. But I know I'm going to do it.

I had a dream that points me in the direction of what I want to be writing about. I was in one of those tunnels like the “It's a Small World” ride at Disney. I was traveling through the images of my life. Here's a sample of what went down in the dream:

I'm on the beach right where the sand meets the water. I can feel the sand and the waves at my toes. I can hear the song “Dos Gardenias.”

I'm swimming and a voice over explains how and why I never really got the hang of swimming.

I'm in a gallery where images of famous Latinos, most notably Ricardo Montalban flash across the screen.

The last gallery I'm in before I wake up shows images of cartoons I loved as a kid, most notably George, Judy and Jane Jetson. Sidebar: I spent the better part of my life spelling George Jetson in my head as “Jorge Jetson.”

I remember that in the moments before I woke up, I spoke to the dream. "I know this is important and I want to know more. Stay right here. I'll be back soon for more information!"

There's a story there.

Write here and now

I was at work until 8pm, got home, had dinner, put on my pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth and am now at my desk, writing. Yes, I'd rather be in bed reading a magazine, but at my desk is where I need to be and writing is what I need to be doing. I got accepted to an MFA program in creative writing, what did I THINK I would be doing when I wasn't at work?

Getting my application and portfolio (did I even HAVE a portfolio? I sure didn't) together was the first challenge, but I did it. And I got in. I got into graduate school (I do love the sound of that sentence). Post acceptance, the tiny bursts of panic started. OK, not tiny. How was I going to do this? And work? And have a life? It's a lot, but people do it. My soon-to-be cohorts are doing it. Right now. And, about them, my cohorts, these people I have not met yet. They've welcomed me into their virtual world already. Thirty nine notifications of friend requests on facebook in two days, a welcome shout out from my “big sister,” and lots of welcome messages. So great.

The schedule says I start in December, but the work begins now. I have to get ready for school, adjust the lifestyle I've become accustomed to for the last three years, for the next two years. I need to curb the going out, cut the unnecessary spending (this isn't going to pay for itself, no matter what the mysterious Stafford says) and quit making excuses for why I'm not writing. Every night after work, I'll be doing some combination of reading, writing and editing (though E says not too much editing).This is the thing I have always wanted, and I'm ready to do the work. Time to get serious about Daisy, the writer, version 2.0. Am I ready? Maybe? Yes. Is it worth it? Without a doubt.